


Lord of the Dance

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Torchy - Freeform, Very torchy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:19:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2821682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is entirely, totally about the slow burn. Two men quite deliberately engaging in driving each other around the last bend, prolonging the agony. Foreplay with all four hands more or less well behaved and all clothing on. </p><p>There is something about slow-dancing from the mid-20th century that's just pure turbo-charged sex on speed. I do very much hope I caught that and made it work for our two quiet, sensible men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord of the Dance

Mycroft was looking like Hades himself—dark, faintly sinister. He lurked in the shadows of the unlit office, fingers knit, all but the steepled index fingers. His eyes brooded.

Lestrade, looking at him, shivered and swore softly.

“Damn….”

Mycroft knew he loved it when he was saturnine and dark. Lestrade knew his lover was one of the kindest lovers in the world—but, jeez, when he channeled the dark side of the Force it was like mainlining a screwed up cocktail of adrenaline and testosterone and other things with chemical sounding names and chemical feeling effects all having to do with, well…chemistry. And Mycroft knew it.

“Gregory,” he said, in that fine linen voice, so posh, so controlled, so freaking….

Nggg. So freaking ngggg.

“Tease,” he husked back.

“An interesting philosophical question,” Mycroft said, voice soft and whispering in the stillness. “Is it teasing if you want it? If you like it?”

“Mike…”

“Yes?”

“For the love of God, Mike…”

“Mmmm?”

“You know what this does to me….”

“And you know what to do about it.”

Yes. He did. Which only made it hotter.

He walked the familiar path and switched on the music player. A deep, smoky baritone voice backed by a lazy dance band started “In the Still of the Night.” Just listening to the easy, sultry music felt like electric current straight to his….

_Do you love me as I love you? Are you my life to be, my dream come true?....._

“Would you like to dance, Mike?” It was always so strange to hear his own voice when they did this—the barely restrained longing, the way it deepened and fell, the hesitant vulnerability. Such a simple question, and it turned him inside out.

Mycroft nodded, silently, and rose from behind his desk.

He looked so fine. He always looked so fine. He’d had a bad day today—something tough and challenging to face. Lestrade knew: he was in his warrior suit, the dark, strict pinstripe that hid almost all Mike’s whimsy from the world. Moving through the banded shadows of the office, lit only by the bars of light from the windows, he was like the angel of death. So quiet. So tall. So collected and still. He held out his hand to Lestrade, who took it and allowed himself to be drawn close. He was already shivering. He was already pressing close, wanting to feel Mike’s body warm and solid against his own.

_In the still of the night, as I gaze through my window at the moon in its flight, my thoughts stray to you…_

Mycroft took the first step, leading them into the simplest of dance steps—barely more than the back-and-forth sway even the most helpless teenager could manage at his first real dance. Lestrade was damned if he knew how the man turned it into more in spite of that—how when he gave himself over to Mycroft’s lead, he found himself drawn into something so supple and seductive and complex in spite of the basic back-forth. He’d feel the push of Mike’s hip, the pressure of his chest, he’d feel a change in angle and attitude like the cant of a motorcycle, and he’d lean into the motion and they’d be dancing. Purely, perfectly dancing.

The music was quiet. The office, more so. He could hear Mike breathe—controlled, but aroused already, heat in every exhalation. His own breath was as fevered. He leaned his forehead against Mike’s shoulder, drawing in the smell of him. He felt his lover’s lips move lightly over his short-cropped hair.

They never danced in public. It wasn’t just that it was still a rough world for two men dancing together. They were both old enough to know there were places they could have gone. But the only places they could have gone and danced to the music this way, were places they didn’t want to be, offering experiences they didn’t need, surrounded by too many people whose eyes they’d as soon avoid. Who wanted to dance in the “private clubs” if they could do what they were doing here, now, in the privacy of the dark office? Nothing they could do, or would do, in public would come within miles of the scorching hot, incendiary dance they performed alone in the darkness.

He drew his hand away from Mycroft’s waist, but only to slide it into his jacket, running his fingers over the fine, smooth cotton of his shirt. He found his waistband and the turn of his hip, and let the very tips of his fingers grip, slip, finding purchase just under the band. Just barely under the band. He could feel Mike was hard already, his erection prodding Lestrade’s own hip. He rocked closer, providing pressure, though little friction. Mycroft took a deep breath, an unvoiced moan shuddering in his throat.

It was a battle they joined in together—to go as far as they could go without giving way. It took discipline and control. The desire shook through them both as the music ran on like the deep, flowing Thames, murmured around them, purled along on a steady current of longing….

_Do you love me, as I love you? Are you my life to be, my dream come true…_

_Or will this dream of mine fade out of sight…_

_In the still of the night…_

The singer, not one to give up on a good thing, swung it around again, back to the night, back to the window, back to the moon flying high. As he did, the two moved against each other, refusing to give in, refusing to end the dance.

“You don’t know what this does to me,” Lestrade managed to gasp.

Mycroft simply kissed him—feathery kisses on his temple, timed to his shivering breath. His knee hovered, never between Lestrade’s thighs, but always ready to be.

The music slowed, faded, was gone.

“Hell, Mike,” Lestrade gasped, leaning against his lover, holding tight. “Hell.”

Mycroft, without words, nuzzled until Lestrade raised his face, then kissed deep and long, as the music began again. “It’s ‘Unchained Melody’ this time,” he whispered.

“You bloody devil.” Lestrade moaned like the damned, and leaned into his lover, allowing himself to be drawn into burning hell by the lord of Hades himself.

 

 **Nota Bene:**  [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37KHMyN3sHM) is not slow, sultry, or smoky enough--nor is it baritone. But I was not finding anything as utterly criminally slow and seductive as this song can be, and this came closer than anything else I could find.  


End file.
